


Sarabande: With Motion

by shimadagans



Series: The Butterfly Suite [4]
Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Alternate Universe - Classical Music, Alternate Universe - College/University, M/M, Music school AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-22
Updated: 2019-10-22
Packaged: 2020-12-28 04:56:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,147
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21131012
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shimadagans/pseuds/shimadagans
Summary: [ “I’m not in love with fucking Dimitri,” Felix hisses at him, at the end of his goddess-damned rope, following Sylvain and stepping right back into his personal space, “You are so oblivious, it’s nearly unbelievable.”“Then—who—” Sylvain reels like he’s been hit, and Felix is this close to just surging up and kissing him so he finally gets it— ]The semester draws to a close, and Felix finds himself caught up it in all.Part four of a series, please read the other parts before this one.





	Sarabande: With Motion

They don’t talk about it, about the party, or what happened afterwards. Felix knows that he asked for silence on the subject, but it doesn’t stop him from feeling a twinge of regret every time Sylvain looks at him for just a second more than he maybe should.

The look Sylvain leveled at Claude, all unspoken threats and false cheer. The one he gave Felix, worry, hope, and something he can’t put his finger on, no matter how hard he tries to nail it down. How both made him feel things he told himself he shouldn’t bother with; he can’t get it out of his head.

He knows now, it’s ridiculous to try ignoring this anymore. Felix knows how he feels. He resigns himself to accepting it, begrudgingly, like sharing space with an overeager dog.

He loves Sylvain. He loves him, and not in the cutesy way his younger self would’ve retched over. It’s like peering into a crack in the ice that covers the top of the pond out in the woods behind the Blaidydd estate; deep, and he’s honestly afraid of trying to get a closer look.

It still doesn’t mean he’ll do anything about it. The world keeps turning, after all. Felix Fraldarius has no time to give to emotions that scantly mean anything at the end of the day. They’re something for him to keep to himself, maybe not locked away anymore but kept on the opposite side of the room.

The rest of midterm break flies by and they’re thrown back into classes before they can blink. Byleth greets him when he knocks on their office door for his first lesson since everyone has returned to campus, and they clear the stand for Felix’s music, “Break go well?”

“Alright enough,” he answers, tightening his bow and examining his rosin critically; might be time to get a new piece, “Yours?”

“Didn’t do much,” they shrug, getting their own instrument out and ready, tuning perfectly without a tuner. It had amazed Felix during their first one-on-one lesson, until Byleth had shrugged and chalked it up to perfect pitch. “I played a couple shows with my dad, nothing too interesting.”

Felix’s eyes drift to the tour poster framed on the wall by Byleth’s cluttered corner desk. Its rounded font proclaims “Jeralt Eisner and the Mercenaries” and lists quite a few dates and locations. The man at the front of the band in the pictures looks almost nothing like Byleth physically, but there’s one near the bottom of the man almost-smiling and yep, there’s the resemblance.

“So,” Byleth interrupts his train of thought and Felix unconsciously straightens up, “I’ve been thinking, it seems like the piece we chose for your solo work this semester is going well. Maybe too well.” They shake their head and gesture to Felix’s music, “I was trying to play to your strengths but honestly, I think we both know what your strengths are. You have excellent musicality; your posture and pose are well-formed. On the other hand,” their lips quirk upwards in a ghost of a smile, “You seem to struggle with the polish, so to speak.”

Felix nods, though he’s a bit miffed. Byleth hasn’t steered him wrong yet, and he knows that they know what they’re talking about, but it still smarts to be called out like that.

“Here’s my plan,” Byleth plops a new book on the stand and the composer’s name, printed on the bright green cover, makes him sigh, “Oh, don’t give me that look, playing Bach will be good for you.”

He’s tempted to ask, “Do I have to?” but he bites it down and stares at the book with as little distaste as he can manage, “Which suite will we be working on?”

“Your pick,” Byleth says smoothly, and their expression turns into a full smile, amused, when Felix groans, “Come on, you tell me all the time how you want to become a better performer, there’s no better way than making yourself just a little uncomfortable.”

It’s not that Felix hates Bach, necessarily. He just hates the Bach Cello Suites that Byleth is insisting he play for the rest of the semester, and quite probably for his end of semester juries. He had told his father once that he found them “boring and trite” and while that hasn’t changed at all, he knows Byleth is just looking out for him, and that they’re generally required repertoire for many orchestral auditions. By the end of his lesson, they’ve poked through the book of suites and decided on the fourth one, deemed the most technically challenging by Byleth.

“I’m thinking we should focus on the Prelude and see where it gets us,” Byleth says, stepping away to put their instrument down, “It has a lot of depth to it, so there’s a lot for us to dig into. In practice this week, try to focus on just the technical bits, alright?”

Felix has that bone-tired-but-satisfied feeling in his limbs again, like he usually gets after his lessons with Byleth, “Alright.” He starts packing up, resolving to grab a coffee on his way to his next class.

“And,” Byleth says, before Felix can pack up and dart out of their office, “I know this is going to be challenging for you, and that you try to work through challenges without stopping, but _please_ try not to overwork yourself. I know you also have ensemble work to do, at least, so leave yourself time to relax too.”

Felix grumbles, but it’s mostly good-natured, and he gets out of Byleth’s office before they can spout any more wisdom.

Unsurprisingly, Sylvain is waiting for him right outside the music building. He seems to have memorized Felix’s schedule effortlessly, though Felix can’t talk; he knows Sylvain just got out of conducting class with Professor Rangeld.

“Hey, Fe,” he slides into step with him, having already stubbed out his light, “Lesson go okay?”

“They’re making me play Bach,” Felix scoffs, shoving his hands in his pockets, “And I told them the quartet’s down to play at that event.”

“Still not fond of good old J.S., huh?” Sylvain nudges him, and Felix jokingly tries to trip him, “Hey! Bach’s not _that_ bad, actually, some of his fugues are pretty great, in my opinion.”

“Like your opinion is worth anything,” Felix snorts, “And you’re a cellist, of course you like him.”

“His favorite instruments were more like violas, y’know,” Sylvain comments, idly fidgeting with his sleeves as they walk up to the dining hall, and Felix does a doubletake, “What? Sometimes I pay attention in class, I wouldn’t still be here if I didn’t!”

“Still,” Felix sighs and swipes them both in, immediately heading for whatever smells most like cooked meat, Sylvain having to take bigger steps to keep up, “They’re making me play one of the preludes, from the cello suites. They weren’t even _written_ for my instrument. Said it’d be good for me to focus on my weaknesses.”

“You have weaknesses?” Sylvain asks, grinning when Felix shoots him a scowl, “Kidding! Kidding! You’re allowed to have ‘em, we’re only human.”

Felix starts grabbing food to avoid looking at Sylvain’s face then, glowing with warmth that he’s not sure he should receive, “Yeah, whatever. I’ll just have to practice more.”

“Not this again,” Sylvain rolls his eyes at him and they head for the tables near the windows where they usually sit, “If I catch you overworking yourself, I’m gonna carry you out the music building myself. It’s not _healthy_ to spend that much time in there.”

“Tell that to Dimitri, he barely leaves the practice rooms,” Felix dares a glance up at Sylvain, who’s frowning now, “What? Why is it just me that you’re pestering?”

“Sometimes, I think people forget you have limits, too,” Sylvain says, damn him for seeing straight through him, as usual, “Including our friends. Including yourself. And I’m serious about carrying you out of the building.”

“Sure,” Felix says, eyes darting to his plate, knowing his traitorous face is probably pink, “Can you even carry me?”

“Wanna find out?” Sylvain splits back into an easy grin, laughing loud enough when Felix almost shoves him out of his chair that the people at the nearest table glance up from their plates.

“Seriously, though, Fe,” Sylvain manages once he’s caught his breath, “Let me know if I can help. I’ve played all the suites so much I see the music when my eyes are closed. Even if it’s just ‘Hey, listen to this bit and tell me it’s good’, say the word, I’ll help.”

“…Thanks,” Felix mutters, taking out his phone so he has something else to look out besides Sylvain’s kind, pretty, _stupid _face. Fuck him.

_Fuck me,_ Felix thinks, because if Sylvain’s going to keep hovering, if he’s going to keep _caring_, Felix feels like he’ll burst. Or spontaneously combust, and neither sounds great.

* * *

A few days later, Felix is plodding through his piano practice, trying his best to remember exactly how the keyboard professor’s hands had looked on the keys. Shamir isn’t one for much talk, and she executes lessons much like she does her performances: clean, methodical, and with grace. Felix enjoys their lessons, and is trying his best to stay on her good side when someone nudges open the door of the keyboard lab, peeking in.

“Oh, Felix,” Ashe smiles, sidling into the room, “There you are, I should’ve known you’d still be here this late.”

Felix glances out the window, tearing his eyes away from the book propped up in front of him. He’s glumly surprised at the lack of sunshine, and a peek at his watch tells him he definitely should’ve gone home by now.

“I hope I’m not interrupting too much, but,” Ashe comes to sit nearby, rolling his chair a respectable distance away, “I just wanted a moment.”

“For what?” he asks, perplexed. They haven’t talked since they first met, really; Ashe being both a sophomore and a wind player meant they shared no classes at all.

“Just…to thank you, really,” Ashe smiles at him disarmingly, “Despite how cold you may be outwardly, people here already know they can count on you if they need help.”

“That...hasn’t been my intent,” Felix replies, even more confused, turning to face Ashe fully, “What’re you talking about?”

“Oh, come on,” Ashe’s eyebrows scrunch up, fingers tapping his leg out of habit, “Just the other day, I saw you helping Dorothea hang up posters for the operetta. And during break, Bernie texted me about how nice you were to her after your composition midterm. _And,_” he fixes Felix with a look that he’s not sure what to do with, “Don’t get me started about Sylvain.”

“What about him?” Felix narrows his eyes, but Ashe isn’t intimidated in the slightest, “The both of you are so _dense_, no wonder you’re so close.”

Before Felix can respond, Ashe raises his hands, palms forward, “Sorry, that was rude of me. I’ve known Sylvain for a while now, and I can see why he cares so much for you, though I think he’d hit me if he heard me saying that.”

“He’d certainly imply that he wants to,” Felix muses dryly, unoffended, “How do you know him?”

“We went to the same arts high school in Fhirdiad,” Ashe says, frowning slightly, “When he showed up on the first day of the school year, he seemed so…lost. Charming, but lost, lonely even. Of course,” Ashe clears his throat and sits up, “That was just my perception, but he looked like he needed a friend. So, I introduced myself.”

“Ah,” Felix stares past him, thinking about what Sylvain had told him about his time in the capital, “I’m…glad he had someone to talk to.”

“I tried my best,” Ashe says, but the frown remains, “But he wasn’t himself. I didn’t even know him, and I could tell. He got better at wearing the ‘nice’ face, but I rarely saw him smile, _actually_ smile. Even when we started rooming together here, last year. I had thought maybe,” Ashe’s face curls into disdain, eyes casting over Felix’s face for recognition, “Maybe he was like that because of his parents, so I hoped him being here, away from them, might alleviate that, even a little. It didn’t.”

Felix nods, willing his hands not to curl into fists, as they often do when the Gautiers are brought up, “They’re fucking terrible, his whole family.”

Ashe exhales slowly, “I guess he told you, then? About his back injury?”

“His _what,_” Felix stands up suddenly, nearly knocking over his chair, “What did they _do _to him?!”

“Er,” Ashe rolls back in his chair just a tad, looking a bit alarmed, “I guess he didn’t, then. Sorry, Felix, but it’s not my place to share if he hasn’t told you himself.”

Felix closes his eyes and makes himself sit down, even if all he wants to do right now is shove Ashe, punch Sylvain for not telling him the whole truth, and track down the Gautiers to make their lives a living hell. For now, he settles on bouncing his leg, “You’re right. Sorry.”

“It’s…alright,” Ashe smooths his hands over his clarinet case, rolling back into proximity, “I was saying, I wanted to thank you for being here, because I had barely seen Sylvain honestly smile until this semester, and I’m almost positive it’s because of you.” He laughs and brushes his hair back, “Either that, or he’s gotten hit in the head _really_ hard.”

“Because of me?” Felix echoes, eyebrows furrowed, “How does that make _any _sense?”

At that, Ashe fixes him with a look that makes Felix feel like a fool, lips pressed together, then, when Felix just shakes his head at him, confused, “Oh, goddess. You can’t be serious. Really? You don’t know, do you?”

“Know _what_?” Felix demands, because he’s tired of this cryptic-ass conversation, “Is this another one of those ‘I won’t tell you because Sylvain hasn’t’ things?”

Ashe, damn him, has the nerve to start laughing, and Felix flushes to the very roots of his hair, “Ha, um, sorry, I’m not laughing at you, it’s the situation, really, I promise.”

“I’m leaving right now unless you tell me what the fuck you’re talking about,” Felix says, starting to gather his belongings, glowering, “I have better things to do than play guessing games, and hopefully so do you.” Ashe sobers up pretty quickly, pressing on.

“Okay. I’m being sincere about thanking you. He’s been unpredictable to be around, moody, before you came here. You’ve made his life better just by meeting him again, I’m sure. And as his friend, I’m happy about it. That’s all I wanted to say.” Ashe slings his bag over his shoulder, too, then pauses, “Hm, one more thing, actually,” and Felix rolls his eyes, already making his way to the door, “Felix, what do you feel towards Sylvain?”

Felix freezes with his hand on the door handle, stomach sinking to his feet. With his face turned away from Ashe, words knock into each other behind his teeth and he swallows before answering, “You seem perceptive. Figure it out yourself.” The door swings shut behind him, and Ashe doesn’t follow.

* * *

A few days later, Saturday, finds Felix firmly locked into one of the practice rooms. It’s already half past eight, and he’s been in here since just after lunch. He knows, logically, he should at least take a break; a glance at his phone shows that he’s got plenty of group chat messages to check through, and he’s still got a little homework to get done tonight. He hasn’t bothered to fix his hair since he last tugged at it in frustration, leaving strands hanging past his ears, and his thermos is empty. He could at the very minimum leave the room to fill it up, and maybe fix his hair, but he’s fighting the urge to punch something. Or switch careers, to something that has as little to do with Bach as possible.

Someone knocks on the door to the practice room, interrupting Felix’s melancholy, and he doesn’t even set down his instrument, unlocking the door without peering through the window. A mistake, really, because it’s Sylvain on the other side, holding coffee and plastic bags. Felix blinks at him, blearily, and Sylvain takes the opportunity to maneuver around him before Felix can shut the door on his feet.

“What are you doing,” it doesn’t even come out as a question, exhausted as he is. Sylvain just hands him one of the bags he’s miraculously balancing instead of answering, and Felix peers inside to find those wasabi-soy almonds he likes so much, a bottle of water, and a chocolate bar. He looks up to squint at Sylvain, who wags a finger at him, “Don’t look at me like that, it’s not sweet, it’s got chili powder in it.”

Sylvain then proceeds to sit himself down in one of the plentiful empty chairs, stretching his legs out and setting his cello case down beside him, “I’ve got coffee for you too, but only after you drink all of that water.”

“What. What the fuck,” Felix manages, though he does start sipping at the water, only to recall that he is, in fact, dehydrated, gulping down the whole bottle in 5 seconds flat. Sylvain, to his credit, only munches on his pita chips and raises an eyebrow at him, no ‘thirsty’ comments or anything. Just the unimpressed stare of his best friend. His best friend, who he’s been pining after for years, who just brought him snacks and might as well be a red-headed saint.

“Why are you here?” he manages, sitting across from him and starting to devour the almonds, voice easier to hear now that his throat isn’t dry.

“I was on my way back home from teaching private lessons,” Sylvain cocks his head to the side, assessing him, “And I just happened to see the window to this practice room, so often frequented by a one Mr. Fraldarius, lit up, just like it has been every night since Byleth assigned you Bach. You’ve been here all day, huh?”

Felix’s silence is reply enough and Sylvain sighs, “Fe, living in the music building isn’t going to magically make it easier to play, you know this.”

Felix sets the cannister down just to throw his hands up in frustration, minding his instrument nearby, “Well, what the fuck am I supposed to do, genius?” He knows it’s uncalled for, but he’s _tired_ and all this practice has done so little to make his playing sound like how he wants. The notes are already memorized, but the thicket of the staves leaves no room for error, no qualms for tone. Here Felix is, trapped in the thorns. “No matter what I try, it just sounds,” he wrinkles his nose in self-disgust, “Bland. Boring. I’ve tried walking around while playing it, I tried dancing, I even tried playing it swung, _nothing_ is helping.”

“Hm,” Sylvain supplies, very helpfully, around a mouthful of whatever disaster drink he’s sipping on, “Have you considered the fact that maybe you’re facing burn out?”

Felix nearly chucks the empty water bottle at his head, plastic crackling in his fist, but the look Sylvain’s giving him makes him falter and he tosses it into the recycling bin by the door instead, “Idiot, it’s not burn out, I’ve done worse.”

The disappointment on Sylvain’s face is worse than any dig at him he could’ve made, somehow, making Felix’s stomach churn. He hands over the coffee when Felix reaches for it though, so that’s something.

“Alright, if you’re not burnt out,” Sylvain says, giving Felix a moment to drink, “Then play a bit for me. Maybe another perspective can help. It’s just the Prelude, yeah? Oh, shit, forgot something--”

Sylvain reaches into the front pocket of his bag, pulling out a little blue something, and he tosses it to Felix. He fumbles to catch it, tired as he is, and blinks at it, “Rosin?”

“Yeah, I noticed you were running low the other day during rehearsal, and I was down at the repair shop anyways since I got my bow re-haired,” Sylvain claps his hands together, “So I picked some up for you. ‘S no biggie.”

When Felix looks at Sylvain, chest aching with words he doesn’t know how to say, he swears the other’s face is tinged pink, but he blinks, and it’s gone.

“Oh. Thanks.”

“No problem,” Sylvain replies, and they sit in blessed silence for a moment, one that Felix spends trying to get his emotions wrangled back into the corner.

“Alright, play for me,” Sylvain says, eventually, getting comfortable in his chair, “Let’s see what’s going on in that head of yours.”

Felix sighs his assent and retrieves his instrument, standing and trying not to sway on his feet. He tries to empty his head of everything except the music and lets his bow touch the strings, urging himself to draw _some_ kind of emotion to the sound. He gets about halfway through before his frustration gets the better of him and he whips his bow off the strings, scoffing, “See? Empty, meaningless playing. It just sounds like notes, not like anything remotely enjoyable.”

“That’s not what it sounded like to me, but sure,” Sylvain frowns a bit, standing to peek at the music on the stand, then looking back at Felix, “Humor me?”

“When do I not?” he asks, though Sylvain takes it as a go-ahead, going to get his instrument.

“What do you know about the suites?” he asks, tightening his bow and plucking at the strings, content with the tuning, “Do you know why he wrote them?”

“They’re a song cycle, basically,” Felix recites, sitting down next to Sylvain as he gets his endpin situated, “But at their core, they’re studies in technique.”

“That’s true,” Sylvain nods, gesturing to the music, “But do you know the purpose?”

“No, I don’t,” Felix looks back at him, a mite confused, “Nobody does, the original manuscripts were never found. Only the copies penned by his wife are known to the public, with no articulation or motion printed on them. Nothing.”

“Exactly,” Sylvain smiles and Felix crosses his arms, “There’s so little notation, so there’s plenty of room for interpretation. Like...what do you think about when you play this, or listen to it?”

“How much I despise it,” Felix scowls, earning a laugh from Sylvain.

“No, really, you don’t think about anything besides that when you’re playing? Well,” Sylvain looks back to the music, gaze warm, smile softening into something Felix isn’t sure he’s meant to see, “I figure this suite, and the prelude in particular, it’s a love letter.”

Felix snorts at him, leaning back in his chair, “Only you would find a link between Bach studies and _love letters_.”

Sylvain turns that warm look on him and Felix resists the urge to shrink into the rickety chair, “I’m being serious, Fe. I played this a few years ago, and when I performed it for my jury, I thought of it as a love letter. Look,” he points at the music in front of him, bow resting in his lap, “The beginning, like saying ‘Dear so-and-so,’ then this middle bit, in minor? Uncertainty, maybe thinking his feelings are unrequited, and this ending bit, back to major, like saying ‘you were worth the wait’. See?”

“Not really,” he shakes his head, eyes tracing the same notes Sylvain had described, “I just see arpeggios.”

Sylvain breathes out through his nose and Felix thinks maybe he’s finally given up, but he just brings his bow to the strings of his cello and eyes Felix, something resolute in his gaze, “Watch, and listen.”

Sylvain breathes in and the stroke of his bow goes smooth across the strings, muscle memory. He’s using different bowings than what Felix is using currently, so he tries to follow that at first, but it’s the expression on Sylvain’s face that draws him in the most. His gaze is far away, but the slightest smile curves his lips through the beginning. He gets to the bit in the middle, dropping quieter, hitting the low C sharp with an almost pained look on his face. The next notes fly by, rhapsodic, and he follows the line upwards, sound expanding. The notes get more complex, and his eyebrows furrow, fingers switching positions, agitated, but the sound is still clear. Turmoil lurks in the set of his jaw as he bows through the chromatics, and something like hope springs up in his eyes as he reaches the ending few measures, gaze drifting back to Felix with something he can’t understand lying there as he splits the last chord.

There’s a moment where Felix doesn’t breathe, let alone speak, his eyes locked with Sylvain’s, the last notes still ringing off the paneled walls. They’re both just staring at one another, and Sylvain’s still got that strange little half-smile on his face. Felix searches his brain for why that expression is making his palms sweat, and his brain oh-so-helpfully supplies that he wants to _kiss_ the half-smile. That he wants to kiss Sylvain.

“That’s…” Sylvain breaks the silence while Felix is having yet another crisis, rubbing his jaw self-consciously, “That’s how I see it. That’s what I’m thinking about when I play this.”

Felix nods numbly, aware he’s still staring, and now he _knows_ he wasn’t just seeing the faint blush climbing Sylvain’s usually composed façade.

“Try it,” Sylvain supplies, gently, when he gets no verbal response, “You don’t have to think of exactly that, if you don’t want to. But it helps me.”

Felix raises his instrument up and closes his eyes.

He plays. The beginning, when they first met, when Felix realized how he felt about Sylvain. Then, the melancholy that followed, knowing Sylvain would never be interested, watching him go and doing nothing about it. Never reaching out, locked in a trap of his own making, determined to be strong enough to not wish they could stay close. The chromatic section hits him, and he thinks of how he feels now, unsure, stepping around each other’s feet, never quite in sync. His confusion at Sylvain’s kindness, but the desire to be ever closer. Then, the ending, the _what if_, the hope of being at his side, the lingering looks and touches. Felix pulls through the last chord like he’s cutting through grass, with purpose, and when he looks up, Sylvain looks how he feels.

“Wow,” he murmurs, “That’s uh. That’s a hell of an improvement, Fe.”

Felix immediately averts his gaze, turning to set his instrument down in its case, packing up so he doesn’t have to try to comprehend the wonder in Sylvain’s eyes. He rubs at his face with shaky hands, though whether they’re shaking due to exhaustion or nerves or something else, he can’t say. It’s all too much, how Sylvain had played, how _he _had just played, laying his heart out on the chipped tile like that. Foolish, irresponsible.

Suddenly, though, Sylvain’s in his space, backing him up against the wall near where he’d set his case down hours ago. He gets his hands around Felix’s wrists and pulls them away from his face. “Felix,” he almost whispers, like he’ll scare him off if he’s too loud, “What are you thinking about?” He loosens his grip on his wrists, instead holding his hands, giving them a squeeze, “_Who_ were you thinking about, while you were playing? It was incredible, really, but you looked _scared_, really afraid, and I’ve _never_ seen you afraid.”

“Drop it,” he demands, no, begs, wishing Sylvain wasn’t this perceptive at the worst possible times, “Drop it, _please_.”

“No,” Sylvain has the nerve to glare at him, “_No_, I’m not going to drop this one, Felix. You’re avoiding…something. Something that’s been bothering you all semester, and now it’s affecting how you play. How much longer until you let it mess with your classes, your routine?”

He steps closer into Felix’s space when Felix glowers at him, but says nothing, sighing, tone softer, “You can tell me anything, you know that, right? Believe me, I know you can’t just run or hide from your problems, because they just end up coming back.”

The words cause a flare of anger to flash through him, and he bristles at Sylvain, “Like you can talk! You don’t know what I’m dealing with!”

“I wish you’d tell me,” Sylvain responds, razor-sharp, “I’d help you with damn near anything if you asked! You know I would.”

“I know! Which makes this harder than it needs to be!” He glares right back up at Sylvain, silently cursing the few inches between them.

Sylvain looks at him for a long moment before something like disappointment flicks behind his eyes, “It’s Dimitri, isn’t it?”

“You—what?”

Sylvain looks at him like he’s lost, “You’re…the person you were thinking about, the one person you were talking about when we were at my place that one time, it’s Dimitri.”

Felix is so caught off guard that he just stares at Sylvain for a long moment before he squawks, “You think I’m in _love _with _Dimitri_?!”

“It makes sense,” he says, almost to himself, stepping back a bit, looking strangely crestfallen, “You’ve known him forever. He’s always been kind, forthright, a real stand-up guy. A good friend. Good-looking, too.”

“I’m not in love with fucking _Dimitri_,” Felix hisses at him, at the end of his goddess-damned rope, following Sylvain and stepping right back into his personal space, “You are _so oblivious_, it’s nearly unbelievable.”

“Then—who—” Sylvain reels like he’s been hit, and Felix is _this_ close to just surging up and kissing him so he finally _gets it—_

The lock on the door to the practice room clicks and the two of them both swivel, Felix’s hands gripping Sylvain’s shoulders, and Mercedes walks in humming. She smiles at both of them when she lets the door swing shut behind her, “Hello, both of you. I’m sorry, but I have to kick you out of the room.”

When they both stare at her, mouths open, she just smiles some more and moves to set her belongings down near the abandoned whiteboard on the wall, “We’re having an interest meeting for the music teachers association in this room in about,” she glances at the clock on the wall, “Ten minutes or so? I’m here early to set up.”

Felix doesn’t trust his words at the moment, so he just extricates himself from Sylvain’s personal space and goes to retrieve his belongings.

“Oh, uh. Of course, Mercie,” he can practically hear Sylvain’s fake grin sliding back into place, “We’ll be out of your lovely hair before you know it.”

Felix darts out the door before Sylvain can catch up, winding his way down the staircase as fast as he can without being suspicious. It doesn’t seem to work, because Annette directs a worried look at him when they pass each other on the first floor, but Felix just shrugs it off and speed-walks to his dorm.

If the first thing he does when gets back to his place is run a blistering hot shower and touch himself while thinking about Sylvain’s stupid, perfect face and hating himself for hoping he has even the slimmest shot, that’s nobody’s business but his own.

* * *

Once again, they don’t talk about it.

They both do a decent job of acting like nothing’s happened, on the surface. It’s nearly torture for Felix, who wants nothing more to erase the idea of him ever having _feelings_ for Dimitri from Sylvain’s too-clever brain. He ends up avoiding him, though he tells himself he’s just trying to make it easier on them both. Less stress and all that. He shrugs off Sylvain’s companionable touches and finds ways to walk to class that he knows are out of the way.

_He’ll figure it out eventually_, his brain tells him, despite his best efforts to ignore it, _Then what?_

The end of the semester is quickly approaching, so everyone is too busy to notice, even if they weren’t convincing enough. Byleth’s impressed with all the progress he’s made on his Bach and praises his Vaughn-Williams too. He doesn’t really feel like he deserves the credit, but he doesn’t have the heart to tell them otherwise, so he just nods and thanks them.

Quartet rehearsal is a bit rougher. Ingrid and Dimitri _definitely_ know something’s up if their appraising glances are anything to go off of, and he and Sylvain just can’t seem to get back into sync. Byleth tells them as much during their rehearsal, but they chalk it up to them having an off day and let them go early, telling everyone to get some rest and be ready for their performance at the end of the week.

Ingrid corners him afterwards, as he’s heading to the library, the one place he’s pretty sure Sylvain won’t follow him.

“Something happened between you and Sylvain,” she says, like it’s not even questionable, “What was it?”

“Nothing,” Felix says, trying to get around her. His lack of sleep must be catching up to him because she blocks his escape easily, dragging him into an empty room and making him sit.

“What happened?” she asks again, and he’s not sure if it’s her tone, or the genuine worry in her eyes, but he tells her. He tells her nearly everything, about how much he missed Sylvain, about how stupid he is, how stupid they both are. She holds one of his hands in hers and gives it a squeeze every time he thinks his voice is going to dry up, and she just listens. When he’s said everything he needed to, and _oh _did he need to, she pats his hand again and says, “You need to tell him.”

Felix looks at her, feeling the weight of the bags under his eyes, of the stress under his shoulder blades, and he laughs, “What about anything I just said makes you think that?”

“We had an inkling that you love him,” she says, patience ebbing, “And I always think it’s better to be prompt with these kinds of things. You said yourself you’ve felt this way for years, even when he wasn’t with us.”

“Those years changed us both,” Felix argues, though he knows it’s weak, one of the last few barriers he’s got, “I’ve barely gotten to know him again, how do I know that telling him won’t put him even further away?”

“You don’t,” she admits, almost apologetic, “You don’t know. But I’m tired of watching you hurt yourself over this. And I think he’d rather hear it from you than from me. No,” she shakes her head when Felix opens his mouth to argue, “I won’t tell him. But you should. Sooner rather than later, because I don’t want my chamber grade to suffer just because the two of you are having a _thing._”

“We’re not having a _thing,_” Felix says, but it’s half-hearted. She leaves it at that, though, and Felix will take what few victories he can get.

* * *

He tries to steel himself and tell Sylvain, he really does. It’s not his forte, feelings, especially not ones like this, ones that leave you vulnerable, but at Ingrid’s insistence he tries. It’s just that every time he spots Sylvain, his whole chest feels like it’s on fire, too warm, and if he looks too long, the way Sylvain looked at him after they played Bach for one another flashes through his head and it’s just _too much_.

He gets through his juries alive, somehow. Dimitri, who goes just after him, waits with him backstage and tries his very best to be gentle when he presses his thumbs against the knots caught in Felix’s shoulders. Ingrid checked them both over appearance-wise before they all left, but he knows his face is a mess. He marches out on stage and almost ignores the jurors, though he knows from what Byleth said that most of the professors are there. When he plays the Bach, he can’t help but think of Sylvain and when Byleth pulls him aside afterwards and gives him the quickest little hug, telling him he did well, he bites his lip and thanks them. “Get some rest,” they urge him, and he just nods and tries not to worry about how disappointed they’ll be when he can’t.

The day of the quartet performance arrives too quickly. Felix tries his best to get some sleep beforehand, but he’s up at the crack of dawn, like clockwork. After he goes to the gym, he grabs his concert wear and instrument from his place, then he heads over to Ingrid and Dimitri’s, pausing outside the door when he hears Dimitri say, “Does he know?”

“No,” comes the sighed response, voice too deep to be Ingrid’s, and nearly too much for Felix to handle, “He can’t. It’d ruin…everything.”

Before he has time to wonder what the hell _Sylvain’s_ doing awake and out this early, Ingrid jumps in, and Felix can hear the frown in her voice, “How do you know? Why do you think that?”

“Even if I didn’t know for sure, I _can’t_,” Sylvain’s voice _breaks_ on the last word, “I can’t risk it, it wouldn’t be worth it if I let him slip away again—”

Felix opens the door, because he can’t stand listening to Sylvain sounding like this, because he’s selfish and wants to know who they’re talking about. All three of their heads whip around to look at him, and Sylvain immediately stands and says, evenly, “Oh. Hey, Felix. I was just heading out,” even though he very clearly wasn’t. His face his blotchy and he doesn’t look him in the eye at all.

He grabs his coat off the set of hooks by the door and casts a look over his shoulder at the other two. Dimitri looks about ready to cry and Ingrid looks like she’s going to pull her hair out.

“See you guys later,” he says, brushing past Felix with not a glance, and he’s gone. Felix watches him walk down the hall before he turns back to the others.

They both refuse to talk about it, predictably, and Dimitri quickly brings up jury results and the upcoming concerto competition. Felix is too tired to dig any deeper, carrying a weariness that sinks right through to the marrow of his bones. He hasn’t felt like this since the days right after his brother died, bone tired and aimless.

When Ingrid presses a mug of tea into his hands, he tries to thank her and she shushes him, “You were spacing out again. Will you be okay tonight?”

“I can call the professor; we can say something came up,” Dimitri tacks on, leaning forward so he can very carefully put a hand on Felix’s knee, “I could say that something’s going on with my father—”

“I’ll be fine,” he insists, but it sounds rough to his own ears, so he repeats it after clearing his throat, “I’ll be fine, guys.”

The looks they give him are doubtful at best, but they don’t press him anymore. They do their old pre-concert ritual of making sure each other’s socks are turned inside out, for luck, and Ingrid makes sure they get ready with plenty of time to spare. Dimitri attacks himself with a lint roller while Felix stands in his bathroom, eyeing his own reflection with disdain.

The bags under his eyes have never been more apparent, he thinks. His hair never got put up after his post-gym shower, and Felix is just thankful he hasn’t broken out in hives or anything, the way things are going. Ingrid appears behind him in the mirror and she sighs fondly at him, “Bun or ponytail tonight?”

“Go wild,” he utters, and her laugh makes him smile weakly. She combs through his hair gently and tucks it into a neat updo, and Felix tries desperately not to think of Sylvain’s hands helping him fix his hair just before Claude’s cursed party.

Dimitri rounds the corner, tapping his watch, and Ingrid squeezes his shoulder before turning from the mirror, “C’mon, Felix. Let’s get going.”

Right before they head out the door (after Ingrid’s checked everyone over, of course), something draped over the back of the couch catches his eye.

“Hang on,” he doubles back to pluck the object off the couch, “Either of you guys missing a…scarf?”

He knows this scarf. He bought it. He gave it to Sylvain years ago, around this time of year, before he left. He hasn’t seen Sylvain wear it, besides in that one selfie he sent way back, so what is it doing _here_? He gathers the teal fabric, softer than he remembers it, and Ingrid pipes up from the door, “No, I think that it got left here, when...well, anyway, ready to go?” She gives him a smile, and he winds the scarf around his own neck, grabbing his coat with a nod.

The venue is all decked out when they get there, and it’s not quite bustling yet. It’s being held in the art museum run by the university, a building that looks just as expensive on the inside as it does on the outside. They meet up with Byleth, get ushered in through a security checkpoint, and Felix vaguely recalls that his dad will be here, too. He’s not worried about impressing him or anything, but he doesn’t want his dad playing helicopter parent all night, and all break. He resolves to break himself out of this weird funk to avoid that just as they round the corner to a little room.

Of course, Sylvain is there already, tuning, and he looks up and flashes them all a smile that’s more convincing than it has been. His eyes linger on Felix, on the scarf, and it falters, but he just goes back to tuning.

That one noncommittal gesture sets Felix’s resolve.

He takes a deep breath, sets his case down, and with their professor and their two oldest friends as witnesses, he clears his throat, “A word?”

Sylvain’s head whips up, mouth open just slightly before he glances at everyone else and dredges up his false cheer, “Sure, man.”

Felix shrugs out of his coat and leads them down the hallway, far enough from the room that there’s no risk of being overheard, but close enough that Ingrid’s safety sense won’t kick in. He turns to look at Sylvain for a moment, studying him.

He, of course, looks unfairly good in a tux. He’s got his hair just a tad bit tamer than usual, but he looks _tired_. He wonders if Sylvain thinks he looks tired too.

Never one for quiet, Sylvain clears his throat and tries that stupid fake grin on him, “I see you found my scarf! I’d wondered where I left it, guess it was at Dimitri and Ingrid’s place, huh?”

Felix eyes him for a moment longer before he speaks, unwinding the scarf from his neck, “I gave this to you. Don’t lose it again.”

Sylvain swallows before he actually takes the scarf, “Right,” and his hands linger near Felix’s for just a second longer than they need to before dropping to his sides, “Was that all? No offense, but I think we should both start getting ready, don’t you?”

“Sylvain,” he says, softly, and the man in question straightens, “I’m tired. I’m so tired, of whatever it is that we’re doing.”

Sylvain’s eyes go wide and he opens his mouth to respond, but Felix holds up his hand, “Let me finish, asshole. I’ve barely slept because of you. It fucking _sucks_. But y’know what?” Sylvain tips his head in a way that he knows means _go on_.

“I can get through this performance at this shitty gala for people I’ve never met and don’t care about, if you _promise_ me that we can talk honestly about this afterwards. About us. Actually talk.”

“Fe, I…” Sylvain grabs for his hand and gives it a solid squeeze, “Yeah. Afterwards, we can talk. Honestly. I promise.”

They head back to the warm-up room, and thankfully nobody says anything about their departure, they just get right down to tuning and fucking around like they always do right before performances. Byleth just snorts from the corner, and Felix swears he sees them filming the quartet with their phone, but Byleth catches his eye and puts a finger to their own lips. Felix shrugs and goes back to watching a video of a _really_ bad recorder rendition of the Titanic theme, snorting when Dimitri almost falls over laughing.

Ingrid makes sure Sylvain’s socks are turned inside out, too, right before they go on, and Byleth gives them all a smile, “You’ve all worked hard this semester. You’ve got this, show all of them what you’ve learned.”

Somehow, such simple words seem to embolden all of them, and they all share a grin before they head out to applause, taking a tiny bow and taking their seats.

Dimitri takes a deep breath, probably shaking off the ghost of stage fright, and Ingrid gives him a nudge. Sylvain watches Dimitri for the cue, and they move as one, making a space perfect for Felix’s sound. He enters the fray with vigor, calling all the eyes in the room to him, though none of them matter. None of them stood a chance of getting Felix’s attention, not with the way Sylvain’s looking at him like a guiding light in the dark.

When the main melody line goes to the violins, he and Sylvain lock eyes, knowing their parts well enough to match bows seamlessly. Ingrid and Dimitri tear through their eighth notes like an unstoppable storm, and they meet back together in major this time. Felix leads the charge right through the meat of the chord, and they hit the chromatics all together, rolling past them at breakneck pace. He feels the pulse of the paired violin motif more than he hears it, his own soloistic line roaring in his ears. Sylvain gets a moment in the spotlight in his high register, milking it for all its worth. The tone gets sweeter, and he thinks he hears someone in the audience sigh appreciatively at the change in tempo.

His heart’s pounding in his ears but somehow, they keep going, the line passing around to each of them in a swell, tone rich and thick. He hits a long, high note, held all by himself, and for a moment he’s afraid the rest of the quartet won’t come back in. It’s just him, suspended in time, but then, Sylvain sniffs next to him, and they all fall back into place as if they had never stopped playing together. The sound comes down to almost nothing, though his ears are still ringing, even after they’ve all played their last pizzicato note together.

In the time between when they finish playing, breathless, and when the audience inevitably starts clapping, Felix’s thoughts are occupied by only two things. First, they’ve finished, and it sounded good. Secondly, and maybe most importantly, Sylvain is looking at him like he’s found something he’s been searching for.

And maybe he has.

Felix isn’t sure how or when they get backstage, because the bows after a performance always seem to take longer than the ones before, but he knows he’s in between a wall and Sylvain, and instead of feeling confined or trapped, he feels…safe.

“Okay,” Sylvain says, still sounding like he’s just run a mile or two, “Fuck. We sounded so good.”

“We did,” Felix concedes, chin tilted up just slightly to look at him clearly this close, “Any reason you’re this far into my bubble, Sylvain?”

“We said we were gonna talk, yeah?” When Felix nods, Sylvain laughs, and it’s shaky, so close Felix can feel his breath, “Well, neither of us is actually that good at talking about our feelings, apparently, but I’m gonna try.” A deep breath, then: “I fucking _love _you, Felix. I have for a long time, I think, but I didn’t know until you were too far away for me to do anything about it. I’ve been kicking myself for it since, but this, you convinced me that it was worth taking the leap of faith to tell you, because what _could_ be was so good,” he rambles, and it takes longer than it should for the cogs in Felix’s head to spin, “And now you’re staring at me like the world’s ending, so maybe I really fucked up. Y’know what they say about—”

Felix grips Sylvain by the chin, tugging him down, and Sylvain’s mouth snaps closed. “Shut up,” Felix says, very eloquently, and he leans up and kisses Sylvain like he’s wanted to for years.

To his credit, Sylvain catches on _quickly_, and any qualms Felix might’ve had about being inexperienced go right out the window. Sylvain kisses sweeter than he thought he would, all soft and more pliant than Felix expected. When he gets a hand in the hair near the back of his neck and holds it there, Sylvain sighs against his lips and tries to pull away. Felix, having absolutely none of that, reels him back and keeps his other hand on his jaw.

Someone down the hallway clears their throat and though he’s _loath_ to pull away from Sylvain when he looks like _that_, all starry-eyed and dazed, Felix turns his head against the wall to spy Dorothea leaning against the doorway down the hall.

“I’d say ‘get a room’ or something, but there’s no other unlocked rooms nearby, I checked,” she rolls her eyes at them. She’s dressed in a gown and clutching sheet music, so Felix assumes she’s about to perform, as well.

“Great job out there, though,” she continues, eyeing the two of them, “And congrats? But you may want to fix your collars, there’s a man coming this way that looks like you, only less pissed off. Ciao!” She ducks into the room she was hovering outside of, and the door clicks shut behind her.

They turn to look at one another, and Felix fixes Sylvain’s bowtie, giving his hands something to do before he murmurs, “I love you, too. Nearly since we first met. And you’re the biggest asshole for being so nice to me while I was standing here thinking I had no chance.”

“I’m an asshole for being nice? How does that work?” Sylvain’s mouth seems permanently quirked upwards now, and Felix can’t decide if it pleases him or annoys him, but then Sylvain gets an arm around him and he decides it’s good, for now.

Rodrigue rounds the corner and beams when he spots them, “Felix! Fantastic work on that Smetana. I remember when Lambert and I played that, ah,” he walks up to Sylvain and shakes his hand, “And wonderful to see you again, Sylvain. Felix was so excited to find out you had ended up here, too.”

“Was he, now?” Sylvain grins at Felix, smug, and Felix changes his mind again.

They meet up with the rest of the quartet, as well as Ingrid’s parents and Dimitri’s dad, and they settle down at a restaurant nearby that Dimitri swears is haunted. Ingrid snorts at him over her pasta, and Sylvain snickers at Felix’s side at the scolding she gets from her father. The Gautiers are thankfully absent, and Felix’s dad takes notice, pulling Sylvain aside as everyone heads out with their takeout.

“Do you have plans for the holidays, Sylvain?” he asks, because he has infinitely more tact than Felix, “Staying here over break?”

“I was planning on it, sir,” he nods, still respectful of his old teacher, “I’m guessing you’re dragging Felix home whether he likes it or not.”

“That was the plan,” Felix eyes his father, knowing a scheme in his father’s eyes when he sees one.

“That won’t do,” Rodrigue says, as if it’s that simple, “You’ll be coming home with us. Nobody should spend the holidays alone, right, Felix?”

Felix thinks about what happened this time just three years ago and he fixes Sylvain with a glare that says _I care about you, so don’t argue_, “Right.”

Sylvain tries to muster up a weak argument, but it’s shot down in no time by both Fraldarius men, so he ends up packing his bags when he gets home that night.

He pulls up to Felix’s dorm in his beat-up orange hatchback the next morning, and Rodrigue snorts at the color, “What is it with him and the bright colors? Hah, anyway,” he regards Felix with a smile, “You’re sure you don’t want to ride with your old man?”

“I don’t trust him not to miss the exit and get hopelessly lost,” Felix answers honestly, adjusting the strap of his bag, the rest of his luggage already loaded into his dad’s car, “You’ll be fine on your own.”

“Of course, Felix. Be safe, I’ll see you when we all get home.” He gives his son a one-armed hug that Felix accepts, then he’s getting into his own car and pulling away.

Felix watches him go before he strolls up to Sylvain’s car, opening the backseat door and tossing his bag in. He’s already got some bubblegum pop song blasting _way_ too loud for this early in the morning, and he’s singing along in a way that heavily suggests he’s not in music school.

“Hey, Fe,” he says when Felix slides into the passenger seat, and he leans over to kiss him on the cheek.

Felix snorts and stops him from pulling away, “You missed, dummy,” and he kisses him squarely on the mouth, which Sylvain enthusiastically returns. He pulls away after a moment, thumb tracing Felix’s jaw, “Is this how it’s gonna be from now on, with you surprising me every morning?” His eyes widen just slightly, “Oh, oh, can I call you ‘babe’? Or ‘sweetheart’? Or—”

“Stop,” Felix groans, reaching to turn the volume dial down, “And don’t ask that, it’s not like you won’t call me all those things, even if I tell you not to.”

“If it really bothers you, I won’t,” Sylvain catches his hand over the center console, sincere, and it makes Felix’s face flare pink.

“Whatever,” he mumbles, and he opt to stare out the window instead of at Sylvain’s shit-eating grin.

“Felix, Fe, babe,” he calls, singsong, forcing Felix’s attention back to him with narrowed eyes, “I love you.”

Felix feels his features soften before he sighs and squeezes Sylvain’s hand, “I love you too. Now let’s get coffee before we hit the highway, otherwise I _will_ have to plug my ears when you sing.”

**Author's Note:**

> Works featured:  
Bach Cello Suites: Suite IV, Prelude  
Vaughn-Williams Suite for Viola  
Smetana String Quartet No. 1, 1st movement
> 
> We got them there, folks. Don't worry, though, I've still got some things to to share. There are more than 4 movements in this suite.


End file.
